THE PRETTY PETTY IRONIES OF LIFE! Copy

THE PRETTY PETTY IRONIES OF LIFE!

Observations made at Piazza Archimide, Syracuse, Sicily – 23rd August 2023

1. Directly overlooking the gushing waters of the fountain of Diana on an archaic-style renaissance flat was a balcony consumed by a Sicilian Nonna (Aged 68) beating the final whisps of dust and dirt off of an extensive piece of clothing embroidery. It was a turquoise table cloth embodying the rich imagery of succulent lemons, royal laurel leaves and elegant prints of gardenia. She battered the sheet with a flaring passion in an almost mechanical manner of motion with each whip harder than the previous one. As whisps of dust gently surfaced from the heavenly garden that painted the cloth, they fell onto the streets like glittering silt. As her battering grew, brutal and boisterous, I could picture the frustrating vexations of her mind gently mitigating as her wrinkles softened, her eyes sparkled and her faced gleamed in joy which was now beautifully decorated by the presence of a wholesome smile.
2. Diagonally under the balcony where the Nonna indulged in battering the bedsheet, sat a cult of three shrewd businessmen (Aged 29, 30 and 34). They were dressed in Armani suits that boasted a Stygian shade of ebony black with their buttons unleashed. Yet under those heavy suits of corporate puissance, were simple white shirts, the craftsmanship of a nearby tailor, that was ironed by their mothers this very morning. Though their trains of thought may have been initially rumpled by the tangled turmoil of meetings, visits and presentations, they had chosen to decelerate those trains to engage their mental muscles in a fierce game of chess. Two played while the other observed; The battle on the board was bloody and brutal, the pawns were half dead, the knights were lost and the king whose king was killed was private preparing a ploy to commit vendetta. Despite the violence and gore that stood underneath their astute eyes, the men looked as merry as larks as they sipped their shots of espresso for, they knew their real battle was just around the corner, by the office block of Syracuse.
3. A few yards ahead of the mighty trio was another table, much closer to the gleaming waters of the Fountain of Diana. On this table sat the attractive daughter of the nearby vegetable vendor (aged 18), dressed in raven red which seamlessly harmonised with her coal-coloured hair and snow-coloured skin. She was glowing under the subtle solar of the Sicilian sun and although she had the aura of a femme fatale her facial features completely juxtaposed the vicious beauty of her physique. Her forehead was as small as her ears, her nose was compressed into her skin and her smile was gentle while her eyes were glistering in a solvent of utmost purity as she starred at her lover across the table (aged 18). He was a reincarnation of Adonis, a handsome Sicilian youth of aristocratic charm. He was wearing a casual brown coat over a white shirt as instructed by his father and although he boasts a finely sculpted seductive face, it is frequently overshadowed by the evil presence of an existential demon who questions the rationality of his desire. Yet as he stares into the depths of the glistering eyes of his lover, the demon disappears into thin air. She takes a gentle bite from a green summer apple and he reciprocates. The verdant flesh of the warm apple erupts its sweet juices on the surface of their tongues.
4. As the lovers luxuriate in the sweetness of the green summer apple, a young boy (aged 14) sits on the opposite side of the fountain, absorbed in his artistic pursuit. His ear holds a dwindling pencil, while a torn sketchpad rests on his lap, and a discarded piece of rubber lies beside him. His gaze is fixated on the towering statue of Diana and her voluptuous breasts that springs fertility through out the city. Despite the surrounding allure of Diana’s classical beauty, his focus remains unwavering on his artistic endeavour. The translucent tunic of the goddess reveals hints of her form underneath, capturing the essence of sensuality and grace from classical antiquity. The boy painstakingly sketches each detail, erasing and reworking parts of his drawing in a quest for perfection that seems both fervent and unending. Occasionally, he glances up, briefly captivated by the statue’s compelling presence before returning to his task. His determination to capture Diana’s feminine splendour on paper is palpable, reflecting both his artistic skill and the depth of his admiration for the timeless beauty before him.
5. Just as the young boy is once again cast by the sensual spell of Diana, behind him in bar is a professor of mathematics (aged 56) whose table is scattered by layers of papers which are in turn scattered by paragraphs of numerical sentences and adorned by a convulsion of free-hand sketches comprised of circles, lines and polygons. Two of his perceptive male and female students (aged 21 and 22) approach the scene with glasses of limoncello to quench the scorching heat of the sun. As much as they admire and celebrate the numerical fables and tales of mathematics, they are startled to see the intricacy of the professors work and are baffled by its purpose. The professor explains to them with a smile that he is trying to compute the value of pi by inscribing multiple polygons into an arbitrary circle just as Archimedes did here in Syracuse two millennia ago. But why would the professor spend time so meaninglessly on an endeavour that has already being pursued by a man of the past the students ask. The professor explains that sometimes we must step into the feet of our fore fathers in order to appreciate their silent steps and memorialise and ameliorate our alacrity towards academia. The two students intrigued by the Ancient mathematical methods that stood beneath their eyes take a sip out their limoncellos and sit by the professor and offer to help him in his endeavour.
6. At a perpendicular angle from the mathematical trio and opposite to me was another man (aged 65), whose eyes were locked with mine. He had a strong sense of apparel wearing a coat, shirt and trouser that boasted the ultimate bliss of privilege. He seems to have had multiple companionships yet deprived of friendship. He seems to have slept with every woman in Italy yet no one has offered him the gift of love. He seems to have lived in exquisite flats yet nowhere has he felt the presence of home. His face seems to have been pricked a myriad times with the Shots of Botox that hide the many wrinkles, scars and creases that would have now engulfed his pretty face. Although his aura echoes his portrayal as an elite king of the high life in Italy, his eyes seem discoloured, discoloured by the constant bombardment of luminescent lights, alcoholic oceans alcohol and stripping poles. Here he sits at a common man’s piazza with a cigarette diffusing the frustration from his mind and a pen and paper on which he diligent write the pretty petty ironies of the sweet life of the commoners he can no longer seek nor find. It was then that I realised I was starring at a mirror, a mirror that was under a attached to a rusty metal grill.